repugnance to chamber music and symphonies, and deriving a highly specialized education from his mother.
"Amory."
"Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for mother; she encouraged it.)
"Dear, don’t think of getting out of bed yet. I’ve always suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous. Clothilde is your breakfast brought up."
"All right."
"I am feeling very old to-day, Amory," she would sigh, her face a rare cameo of pathos, her voice exquisitely modulated, her hands as facile as Bernhardt’s. "My nerves are on edge—on edge. We must leave this terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine."
Amory’s penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her.
"Amory."
"Oh, yes."
"I want you to take a red-hot bath—as hot as you can bear it, and just relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish."
She fed him sections of the "Fêtes Galantes" before he was ten; at eleven he could talk glibly, if rather reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot Springs, he sampled his mother’s apricot cordial, and as the taste pleased him, he became quite tipsy. This was fun for a while, but he essayed a cigarette in his exaltation, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian reaction. Though this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly amused her and became part of what in a later generation would have been termed her "line."
